


in this blurry world

by patriciaselina



Category: Exit Tunes Presents ACTORS (Album)
Genre: Best Friends, Contests, Entertainment Industry, Future Fic, King of Masked Singer, Love Confessions, M/M, Masks, Old Friends, Singing, Television, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:17:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciaselina/pseuds/patriciaselina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he’d started hosting singing contests some time ago, some fans of his would dig up his education at Tenshou – <em>you know, the school with the students uploading their covers on NicoNico?</em> They’d ask Kouya, sweet sweet giggles lacing their tone, <em>why don’t you sing anymore?</em></p><p>In response to that – Kouya would laugh in the way that brought his audience approachability up ten percent, and say that he’s gotten rusty over the years.</p><p>That’s a lie, of course. He hasn’t gotten rusty. As if he ever would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in this blurry world

**Author's Note:**

> Title and basic premise come from the GUMI song _[Leave](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzR63-dm6qI) _ (which I end up quoting below; it’s supposed to be the song being sung here), and the Korean singing contest _King of Masked Singer_ , specifically by their one contestant (who I happen to have a crush on), [Mr. Bee, also known as BTOB’s Yook Sungjae](http://www.soompi.com/2015/05/10/btobs-yook-sungjae-breaks-idol-singing-stereotypes-on-king-of-mask-singer/).

_After 10 years, will those days_

_between the two of us_

_still be left behind in your chest?_

_Mistaken for people simply passing by,_

_we’re destined to never meet again –_

_The two of us,_

_by a red string._

* * *

 

Tenshou Academy seems like so far away now.

If he thinks back to it – _very hard_ – Kouya thinks he could remember the gist of all those years. Navy blue blazer over dark purple sweater over a white shirt and tie, lessons day in and day out, talking to and laughing with friends,  spending lunch breaks and club hours in the recording booth of the Broadcasting Club room, bickering and pretending to swipe more than just the icky vegetables off Seijun’s _bentou_ –

 _Seijun_.

The name still makes Kouya’s heart clench, even now.

They’d promised to keep in touch, during their graduation; that one day with their diplomas in hand and the future spread out in front of them, but – who ever really makes good on that promise? Who ever takes the time to exchange good mornings, good afternoons, good evenings with someone they used to go to school with, when the entire world waiting for them to conquer?

As time passed by the words _Seijun Yuyama_ went to the same category in Kouya’s mind where everyone else went – Mitsuki- _senpai_ , Enjouji-kun, Washiho- _sensei_. _People I used to know_. People who used to occupy the forefront of Kouya’s mind, but are now shoved to the sidelines.

But sometimes – when the night is no longer young and Kouya’s thoughts still are – he’d spend hours tossing and turning in bed remembering the things he claims to no longer remember.

Like, how Seijun always wears the bulky headset around his neck even when he’s not recording, and how he’d smacked Kouya upside the head with a textbook when Kouya suspected Seijun of wanting to be pair-looked with him – all the while forgetting he was _on-air_ at the time.

How Seijun dislikes bitter vegetables and allows Kouya to take them out of his food at will.

How Seijun sometimes approves of the ridiculous things Narugo and Shido talk about, and enjoys laughing in Kouya’s face when he gets all embarrassed.

How Seijun took a picture of Kouya, his hands clasped and eyes closed, wishing on a star during their school trip in second year, and when Kouya asked him why he did that Seijun only ruffled his hair and didn’t say anything.

How, despite Kouya being the one to clutch at Seijun’s arms and blubber hopelessly after the graduation ceremony, it was _Seijun_ whose tears fell on Kouya’s hair when Kouya said _we should keep in touch_. It was _Seijun_ who held him close and shushed him, rubbed calming circles into Kouya’s back while he was making a sobby mess of himself in front of just about everyone. It was Seijun who –

It was _Seijun_ , Kouya realizes, who he’s wishing is standing right in front of him, right now.

But there’s no way for him to know. That’s kind of the whole point of this contest – people in masks, singing for the audience. Kouya was the host. That’s been pretty much his thing these past few years, the host who specialized in just about everything, from talk shows to political debates, from game shows to the morning news.

When he’d started hosting singing contests some time ago, some fans of his would dig up his education at Tenshou – _you know, the school with the students uploading their covers on NicoNico?_ They’d ask Kouya, sweet sweet giggles lacing their tone, _why don’t you sing anymore?_

In response to that – Kouya would laugh in the way that brought his audience approachability up ten percent, and say that he’s gotten rusty over the years.

That’s a lie, of course. He hasn’t gotten rusty. As if he ever would.

The truth lies in what he doesn’t say – what he _never_ says – that many things remind him of his friends, of _Seijun_ , and singing is the worst of them all. Kouya’s pieces were songs of heartbreaks and goodbyes – he hadn’t thought much of them at the time, but now they’re way too close to home, way too much like _reality_ for him to ever get through a single goddamned song without wanting to fall to his knees and cry for the unfairness of it all.

Which is why, right here, right now, so that he doesn’t end up crying and make a mess out of himself on national television, Kouya wishes that the person standing in front of him right now was Seijun.

It’s a safe thought to think, because – there is no way, no how, that Seijun would ever end up here. If he had become a singer, in the end – like Iimori-kun, or Kiyosu- _senpai_ when he didn’t have tournaments going on – Kouya would _know_.

But Enjouji-kun went pro with soccer and Mitsutsuka-kun went on to teach, Mitsuki- _senpai_ became something of an Internet magnate and Akizuki-kun became a chef, and Seijun went overseas and Kouya never, ever heard from him again.

Back to the show.

The man in front of him is singing about things that Kouya knows all too well and instead of focusing on that – instead of focusing on a voice he _may_ be deluding himself to believe he’s familiar with – Kouya focuses on his mask, instead.

It’s that of a cat. White fur with a black spot on one ear, dark beady eyes hiding its owner’s real eyes from view; it’s more of a knit cap than a proper mask, hiding all of the owner’s hair, as well.

No clues, of course. The public must always be kept guessing.

It dawns dimly on Kouya that, since ‘Nyanko _-_ san’ (as the public fondly, _obviously_ got to calling him) lost this round – the semis, against ‘Usa-chan’, a bubbly young man in a rabbit-eared mask who surprised everybody with a deeply emotional song – Kouya, the judges, and everyone else would finally be able to find out just who this person was, because in this contest, defeat equates to a competitor finally admitting their real identity.

Everyone had been making guesses to who this guy may be, with his suave voice and _riveting_ stage presence – everyone from the general public to the judges themselves.

Everyone, it seems, but _Kouya_ , who had heard Nyanko’s voice during the first week and was immediately struck by a wave of familiarity he’d promised would never _ever_ get in the way of his work.

 _Kouya_ , who never dared guessed who Nyanko might be, because he knows, in some deep dark corner of his heart, that he’ll always wish that the man in front of him was the very same person who he never wanted to say goodbye to, all those years ago.

As usual, Nyanko’s wearing a dark suit and his namesake mask. He’s spent these past six weeks singing the same songs that Kouya and Seijun would pore over and practice after club hours, and. Well. If he tilts his head this way and that, Kouya could almost convince himself that he even _stands_ like the fuzzy memory of Seijun he remembers from way back, when Seijun would hold on to the microphone and sing songs like he was born to it.

Nyanko sings about people breaking apart, saying goodbye, about never forgetting about someone after a long time, and – and Kouya would be lying if he weren’t thinking it were for him, especially. If he weren’t thinking it weren’t for him and Seijun and the future they were never given the chance to have, the future neither of them ever made a risk to take.

The future they could’ve had _together_ , had Kouya ever mustered up the strength to tell Seijun the truth – that he never wanted to be parted from him.

Physical distance, he could handle. But the sense of distance that went past the physical – the reality of having to say goodbye to the one person Kouya had felt known him better than he knew himself – that was what hurt the most.

That was what makes the generic TV-celebrity smile slip off Kouya’s face in the darkness of this dimly-lit stage. That was what makes him want to run away from everything – from this set, from this job, from the words that Nyanko’s singing that sound too much like words Kouya would have said himself, from the voice that sounds like the one Kouya wished he’d be able to hear every day.

It’s when the audience explodes into thunderous applause around him that Kouya realizes Nyanko’s song was finally over. His cue, then.

“Thank you, Nyanko-san, and it had been our honor to have you here on our show!” Kouya says, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt, the practiced words falling from his lips so easily, as if the one thing he wanted to do in the past four-and-a-half minutes wasn’t to break down from the weight of all his memories. “And, as you all know, since it _is_ Nyanko-san’s last day here, Nyanko-san now has to –”

Nyanko ends up peeling his mask before Kouya could even finish the rest of his sentence, and before he knows it – Kouya’s jaw drops, metaphorically, and he almost drops the mike, _literally_.

It’s a good thing one of the judges catches the mike before it bounces off the floor, dusting it off and handing it back to Kouya with a chuckle. “You look so surprised, Ashihara-kun. Didn’t you remember his voice from Tenshou?”

“I...did, actually,” Kouya hears himself murmur, still looking back at the man standing in front of him – that hair that frames his face a little bit differently from what he’d remembered, those eyes that he’d thought he’d never be able to see again.

He’d found himself, against his better judgment, wishing that this would happen – but never in ten years, never in a _thousand_ years, did Kouya ever believe that it was _really_ going to happen.

In front of him, the man on the stage – no, _Seijun_ – manages an uneasy quirk of a smile and says, in a voice that would be so soft if only it weren’t for his own microphone, “That’s just how Kouya always is, I’m afraid.”

 _Ko-ya_ , the first syllable dragging the other behind it, sounding just as familiar as it was all those years ago.

“Always mindful of everything, save for what’s already what in front of him.”

 _Wait, what the hell was that supposed to mean?_ That’s what Kouya wants to ask right now, but the flow of the show means that he never has time to blurt that out – everyone’s already moved on to the next questions; no, he’s no formally-trained singer, just a normal DJ for a radio station overseas which has a bit of a following; yes, he did dabble in singing when he was in Tenshou; yes, he says with a sudden chuckle, that _is_ what Kouya looks when he’s surprised.

Kouya pouts at the attention everyone suddenly grants him and whatever expression there may have been on his face, puts one hand on his hip and the other, holding the mike, up to his mouth, and says “Don’t think I’m gonna let you leave without treating me to cake, _Seijun_ ,” because if he doesn’t say it _here_ , for all the world to say, Kouya doesn’t think he’ll ever will.

“That’s a promise, then,” Seijun says, his eyes crinkling up into the smallest of smiles before the crowd applauds him right back to backstage.

* * *

 

They’ve been staring aimlessly at their slices of cake for the past five minutes.

“You look fine,” Seijun says, simply, before setting his dessert fork down and taking a sip out of his latte.

“Of _course_ I look fine.” Kouya huffs, stabbing at his cake with his fork, as if the cake slice had just wronged him personally, “I _always_ look fine.”

Actually, it’s more like Kouya was only playing the role of someone who felt ‘fine’ – he knew he _had_ to do this, when he pursued this path in media, the only path that felt as if it was tailor-made for him. He’d had to feel fine and be _happy_ all the time, because he’d been branded as ‘the nation’s best friend’ and always had to be in the best of spirits.

Nobody cared that the only ones Kouya would talk to outside of work-related matters were Enjouji-kun, after Akizuki-kun and Marume- _senpai_ would nag at him to ‘reach out some more’ or something, and Mitsutsuka-kun, whose students always seemed to like going to Kouya’s shows.

Nobody cared that Kouya’s actual best friend was someone he hadn’t spoken to, not for all the years since graduation, all the years that ended up to this moment, sitting face-to-face in a coffee shop.

Nobody cared about any of that, as long as Kouya could always be counted on to play his role, but – looking straight at Seijun’s eyes, Kouya’s reflection the only thing in focus in those warm depths, Kouya likes to believe that he was wrong all along. That there was someone who cared for him beyond the character he’d spent so many years portraying onscreen.

“Yeah, you always look fine,” Seijun concurs – which was weird, Seijun never really agreed with Kouya _outright_ , he’d spend a good amount of time going around in circles _before_ he’d give in and agree with whatever Kouya was thinking. “Honestly, it’s why I never told you.”

“Never told me _what_ ,” Kouya repeats, his voice pitched low and dangerous, Seijun’s careless admission tugging at the stitches left holding his heart together. “That you were leaving Japan? Yeah, you never told me. _Narugo-kun_ was the one who called and told me in the first place – _seriously_ , Seijun, you call me your best friend one moment, but the next moment you’re leaving without telling me and you didn’t even hug me _back_ when I hugged you goodbye –”

“ _I never told you_ ,” Seijun repeats, talking over the rest of Kouya’s rambling, “Because I knew I would never be able to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t _ever_ be able to say goodbye to you, Kouya. I _can’t_. It’s why, when I found out that we had to leave – it’s why I never wanted to tell you about it. Because then I’d have to tell you _goodbye_ , and I never wanted to do that.”

“Huh. So you decided to not tell me anything instead.” Kouya deadpans.

“Yeah, it was stupid, I know.” Seijun at least has the decency to look _embarrassed_ , hiding the slight flush of his cheeks behind the arm holding his cup of latte. “So I decided I was going to tell you, after I left. I know your mail address by heart – I always did – so I knew exactly how I would go about it.”

“But then I’d see your face on the telly, see you laughing and smiling with other people, the same old Kouya I knew – and I stopped myself. You were living your life just fine without me. Why would I ever force myself back?”

“Of course I’d be happy on TV, Seijun – it’s my _job_ to do that. And what were you going to tell me, anyway? That you left? I already knew that, silly, I was _there_ –”

“I was going to tell you what my feelings were.”

Seijun says this, all in one breath, and it feels as if someone had sucked all the air out of Kouya’s lungs.

“What...seriously...by _e-mail_?” Kouya hears himself say, after coming back to his senses, sort of. “Do you have any idea how _dry_ that would have sounded?”

“Well,” Seijun drawls, that little quirk of a smile back on his face, the same one he’d pull when he’d gotten Kouya off-guard all those years ago, “You’d always said that I come off as ‘dry’ to you, right? I would have just proven you right.”

“Seijun, you – you _idiot_ ,” Kouya murmurs, tears threatening to fall from his face and onto the poor helpless strawberry shortcake, “All this time – all this _time_ – you should’ve just _told_ me!”

“I know that too,” Seijun says, looking at Kouya with a ferocity that could’ve stunned the entire world. “But during the years after graduation, you were busy making your way up in the entertainment industry. I didn’t want to be the one who tied you down.”

“You – you didn’t ever tie me down, Seijun. You never did. It – it’s more like, like you pulled me up? As cheesy as that sounds?” Kouya finds himself saying, his hands making frantic gestures, before they settle down – one of them to rest limply on his side of the table, one of them pressing upwards to hide his face. “Ugh. This is ridiculous. I don’t even know if you even mean _that_ – don’t even know if I’m just getting ahead of myself, or if that’s even still how you feel _right now_ –”

Before Kouya talks himself into a corner, _again_ , Seijun puts his one hand on top of the one of Kouya’s that’s resting on the table, and _tells him_.

Kouya smiles, the tears finally making their way down his cheeks, and says, “You should’ve saved us all this trouble, y’know.”

“Better late than never, though,” Seijun says, his free hand moving to wipe the tear tracks off Kouya’s cheeks.

His other hand entwines itself with Kouya’s, squeezing a little, and that one motion distracts Kouya from the fact that Seijun’s actually looking at his downturned face right now, and that he’s actually _smiling_. Like, not the little quirk of a smile Seijun usually does. But something that makes Seijun’s eyes shine brighter, makes his face look a bit younger, as if right now really was all those years ago and they never spent all that time apart.

But – in the end, the past, Kouya thinks, really isn’t all that important. Not in the face of right now, where Seijun is holding his hand and telling him that he’s always loved him.

“Yeah,” Kouya concurs, matching Seijun’s smile with one of his own, “Better late than never.”

* * *

 

_If we could meet again after 10 years,_

_then that’d surely mean_

_that we were bound together._

_On paths we set out on_

_which will never meet –_

_The two of us,_

_by a red string._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lesson of the day: poor communication kills, guys. Life isn’t like a K-drama. It is completely fine and not off-script for you to tell things to the people you love.
> 
> I...have seriously no idea how this transpired, but I hope you like it anyway.
> 
> Cast list: [Kouya Ashihara](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_17.html) and [Seijun Yuyama](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_18.html).
> 
> People mentioned are, as follows: [Mitsuki-senpai](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_02.html), [Enjouji-kun](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_05.html), [Washiho-sensei](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_08.html), [Akizuki-kun](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_06.html), [Mitsutsuka-kun](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_01.html), [Iimori-kun](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_15.html), [Kiyosu-senpai](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_09.html), [‘Usa-chan’ (actually Itto Takatenjin)](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_12.html), [Marume-senpai](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_07.html), [Narugo-kun](http://actorsmusic.jp/character/chara_20.html).
> 
>  


End file.
